


This is a Constant

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bathing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massages, Minor Character Death Mention, Shore Leave, T'hy'la bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 07:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I was four and she took me to see the ocean.”  Spock takes a breath.  “I did not enjoy it.”Jim can’t help his laugh and he can’t help moving closer, his body unconsciously seeking out contact with his mate in a private place where they can do this without judgment or prying eyes or accusations of favoritism which they so carefully avoid on the bridge or away missions.  Spock does not pull back, but instead leans into him.Spock and Jim have a moment together during shore leave.





	This is a Constant

**Author's Note:**

> These space husbands are going to ruin me.
> 
> Anyway I wrote some hurt/comfort fluff.

Places like these are few and far between, and possibly the last place he expects to find his First Officer. For a man of a desert planet, Spock looks like he belongs in a way Jim can’t really describe. Jim has no idea how long Spock has been out there, his soft, off-white Vulcan tunic billowing gently around his thighs, lifting with the breeze to show off toned legs hidden behind form-fitting pants of a fabric Jim hasn’t touched yet, and still knows will be soft and pliant beneath his hands. The ocean behind them is a strange, emerald green which reminds Jim that for all this place is like Earth, it most certainly isn’t. The people here are advanced in technology and strangely primitive in their society, though peaceful in spite of a rigid monarchy.

The palace quarters are lonely in a way, the servants few and far between, and they have two weeks of shore leave now which Jim expected to find his Vulcan aboard the ship in orbit around the planet instead of in an environment too cold and wet for his tastes. Though of course, Jim can’t deny his pleasure at coming into his quarters and seeing Spock leaning gently against the banister of the marble balcony, his deep, mahogany-brown eyes trained outward at the endless ocean before them.

“My mother used to take me to the Atlantic Ocean when I was young,” he says, making it clear he was aware of Jim’s presence the entire time. He falls silent, waiting, and Jim crosses the distance between them. He wants to touch, but refrains, leaning instead against the cool stone just a breath away from his beloved. “She had family in Nova Scotia, and they had a small stretch of private property away from the bigger cities of the continent. She worried that although other species were living and working on Earth, she feared what they might think of me. Her family was not as welcoming as she hoped they would be.”

Jim winces, because it’s yet another testament to how Spock was never allowed to feel like he belonged to either piece of his heritage, and he wants to crack open the past and step inside and swing fists and angry words until those who hurt Spock stopped and listened and erased the pain.

Spock seems to sense this, and he reaches over the distance between them, pressing the tips of his fingers briefly to Jim’s face before they fall away. “Kaiidith.”

Jim huffs. “Still. I know you think I’m illogical, but I hate knowing people hurt you.”

“As I feel for you, ashaya,” Spock says simply, and it’s as close as he’ll get to admitting his illogical wishes aloud, though Jim knows perfectly well he has them. Spock turns back away from Jim. “I was four and she took me to see the ocean.” Spock takes a breath. “I did not enjoy it.”

Jim can’t help his laugh and he can’t help moving closer, his body unconsciously seeking out contact with his mate in a private place where they can do this without judgment or prying eyes or accusations of favoritism which they so carefully avoid on the bridge or away missions. Spock does not pull back, but instead leans into him.

“She gave me a little spade and a bucket. I collected specimens from water-logged rock formations and she told me I should make a sand castle.”

Picturing a four year old, chubby-cheeked Vulcan in little puddle jumpers and bare feet holding a bucket and spade and probably lecturing his earth mother about whether or not building sculpture from sand was logical or not, is so endearing it actually causes pain in his chest. He lets himself think a brief moment about what it would be like if they had their own part-human part-Vulcan child with Jim’s eyes and Spock’s ears and Jim’s unending curiosity and Spock’s unending patience. But he only allows the thought for a moment, because days like today are a stark reminder that any chance of family and children are too far off in the distance.

Before peace was gained they lost four men, one of whom died in Jim’s arms and if he thinks too much on it, he swears he can still feel the blood coating his fingers. He curls them into his palm and looks back out over the water.

“It was not your fault,” Spock says after the pointed silence. Sometimes his perception is painful, but today it’s appreciated because Jim wants to talk about it, but he’s not sure how to begin.

“I should have been more careful.”

“There will always be variables—dangerous ones, and each person assigned to this ship is well aware of them.” Spock bows his head slightly because he, too, felt the loss keenly, even if he does not show it the same way his Captain does.

Jim turns away instead of answering, and he walks into the massive room. It’s cooler than Spock appreciates, but his body adjusts to temperatures far better than a human can, though Jim has no doubt the moisture in the air is trying for him. But if Spock is displeased by this setup, he does not show it as he walks after Jim and approaches him from behind.

His touch is careful, giving Jim time and room to pull back if the contact is too much. But Spock has read his wants correctly, and is rewarded by Jim turning in his arms and slipping warm palms up the back of his tunic to splay flat along the ridges of his spine. Spock lets out the smallest huff of air, and leans in for a press of lips upon lips which Jim happily returns, adding in a swipe of soft tongue.

“There are baths,” Spock says against Jim’s mouth.

Jim pulls back slightly, his brows dipped in a questioning frown. “Baths?”

“I was given a brief tour while you were discussing the parameters of our shore leave with the King’s Adviser,” Spock says, lifting one hand to trace the very tip of his first finger along the edge of Jim’s round ear. “There are baths, set deep in the stone and filled from an underground hot spring. I was told the sensation was…most pleasing. I believe after today it will increase your relaxation and ability to sleep.”

Jim hums, but the choice is already made and he lets Spock tug him through a doorway into a large bath chamber which echoes with their too-heavy shoes. Jim feels over-dressed even in his civvies there. He feels like he should be wearing some sort of toga and laurel wreath for the way it looks like the ancient Roman baths from the history books he loved so much.

The bath is indeed carved into the stone floor in what must have been jagged swipes of some primitive tool. There looks to be natural benches set in the stone, and the water is even greener than the sea, and fragrant in a way Jim can’t explain. But it smells _clean_ and Jim finds he suddenly craves it—a moment to sink into hot water and let the natural minerals of this world slough off the blood and pain from his skin.

He moves to pull his shirt off, but Spock’s hands take his wrist to still his movements, only to take the task over a moment later. Jim lets his beloved methodically strip him bare, from shoes and socks, to shirt, to pants, to undergarments. Spock is fully dressed, and Jim is completely nude with his skin going pinker from the steam, and his penis half-erect from a vague undercurrent of want.

He wonders a moment if Spock plans to join him at all, and then Spock is carefully stripping away his own clothing, folding them neatly and placing them with Jim’s on a stone bench. There are cupboards built into the walls, and Spock searches, finding two silky robes and a bottle of pearlescent soap with a natural sea-sponge.

Jim’s skin tingles with anticipation at the care Spock is planning to show him, and though he knows they can’t fuck in the water—at least, not the way that Jim wants, which is to take Spock deep inside his body—there is going to be far more touching than he’s normally allowed. And that’s enough for now. It will keep him grounded, at least, and allow a quiet mourning for those he’d lost today and those he might lose in the future.

But he will remain, as always, with Spock by his side.

Jim knows exactly one secret about himself, and that is when he dies, he will be alone. That will be in some distant future, because even when Spock is not with him, he is always _with_ him.

“I do not believe the internal temperature of this pool will cause you any distress, Jim,” Spock says at Jim’s hesitation.

It’s not really on purpose, but missions like these, he tends to zone out as he processes, and Spock is ever patient with him. From inside the pool, he reaches up and touches the tips of Jim’s fingers, then links their hands and guides his love into the water.

Jim hisses at the contact because it’s not boiling hot, but it’s a little bit of a shock, and there’s definitely strange minerals in the water that are almost effervescent. The sensation isn’t wholly pleasant, but it’s like a strange taste where you’re not sure you like it, but you want more just to be certain.

Before Jim can truly adjust, Spock’s hands are on him, taking him by the wrists to turn him, easing him onto the natural stone bench. He reaches behind Jim to place the sponge, then he pours a dollop of the soap in the center of his palm. Jim’s breath comes out in soft puffs through barely parted lips as Spock’s hands take one of Jim’s arms and lather his skin. The soap is sweet-scented but not nearly as overwhelming as the feel of Spock’s hands on him. His fingers are strong—terrifyingly so, though Jim knows that it takes Spock losing all sense of both logic and himself before he would use that strength against Jim. Jim feels little pulses of emotion—contentment mostly, as Spock’s telepathic fingers draw sudsy lines from his shoulders to his palms.

His thumbs knead at his hands, bubbling, and Jim imagines he can see red running off into the water and swirling off into oblivion. He knows Spock can sense this irrational thought, and he feels a rush of gratitude that Spock doesn’t try to convince him that it’s not real. Spock knows as well as Jim that blood on your hands, and scars on your body, are not always visible. Were they, Jim supposed they would be permanently stained and not recognizable as humanoid forms any longer—not after this long on the mission, so many dead, and so many wounds barely healed over.

When the bubbles wash free of both Jim’s hands—a metaphorical cleansing that has done enough to get Jim’s headspace back to a place where he can feel like himself again, Spock takes the sponge and finishes the job. The water, miraculously, doesn’t hold bubbles, but absorbs the soap and retains that emerald green. Jim’s adjusted to the temperature now, and merely sits back and lets it unknot his muscles as Spock stands in front of him, thighs on either side of Jim’s.

It’s quiet a long moment before Spock raises his hand and brushes the tips of wet fingers along the lines of Jim’s face. “T’hy’la.”

The word is full of so much meaning. _Friend, brother, lover, forever, soulmate, husband, everything._

Jim feels heat welling in the corners of his eyes, but tears don’t fall. To Spock, Jim is a human with emotions so flagrantly displayed he might as well be screaming and laughing and crying all at once and all the time. But in truth, Jim does what he can to keep iron control over everything because his crew needs him to be strong, to be infallible, to be brave and impervious and calm in the face of anything. And it’s a control so ingrained in him that even in the privacy of these baths here with a man who knows the deepest places of his soul, he finds it hard to let go, to allow himself to seem as vulnerable as he feels.

Spock leans in and smudges kisses across his mouth, under his jaw, into his neck which is tacky with sweat and minerals from the spring. But Spock keeps breathing him in like Jim provides the oxygen he needs to survive and Jim understands that on the most basic, fundamental level because he feels the same. He knows in a sort of abstract way that he could get on without Spock—that he had done so for far more years than he’s actually known him—but it’s impossible to imagine just as it’s impossible to imagine the reality of carving out your own heart.

Jim’s eyes close and he gives himself over to the touch. It’s intimate in ways only he and Spock can be, but not sexual which is fine because really, that’s what he needs. He needs this grounding, this reminder that everything beyond them is chaos, but this—this is a constant.

“I love you,” Jim says, and he realizes it’s the first words he’s spoken in some time.

Spock pulls back and cups Jim’s cheek with his warm, slightly wrinkled hand. Jim wonders briefly if Spock’s hand wrinkles because Vulcans hands do, or if it’s a mark of his human mother.

He doesn’t ask.

Spock eventually pulls Jim from the tub just as he begins to feel like an over-boiled lobster, and he wraps him in the soft silk robe. It has a similar feel to Vulcan robes, though the fabric is lighter, but it seems to trap the coolness and keep it flowing like a gentle breeze which makes the whole thing bearable.

They might be on shore leave, but Jim has responsibilities once they step outside the doors. Responsibilities to his people, to represent his planet and his species and his ship and crew. But they have this reprieve—this afternoon, and into the night, and into the morning. He allows Spock to gently lead him to the bed where their limbs tangle, and the sheets fall around them.

It’s colder than Spock will prefer, he knows, but there isn’t a thread of complaint in the bond between them that Jim can feel. There’s only this—the two of them existing now palm-to-palm in something much deeper than a kiss or an embrace. Jim’s eyes close and he feels Spock’s katra touch his own, and it’s with that safety and connection between them, he allows himself to rest.


End file.
